


Inheritance

by TheIcyQueen



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Implied Childhood Emotional Abuse, implied child neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-05 01:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17315663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIcyQueen/pseuds/TheIcyQueen
Summary: By the time he stood knee-high, he had spent his life passed from person to person, constantly changing hands. Usually, his caregivers had his best intentions in mind, but still...it was ridiculous to think it wouldn't have any lasting effect on him.





	Inheritance

He doesn’t like when they have company. Grown ups’ faces blur together for him, an endless whirl of too-large teeth and bloodshot eyes, and he doesn’t like their tone when they talk to him. He’s too young to understand all of their words, hard as he tries, fingers tracing syllables in dictionaries once all the lights are out and everyone is asleep; but he understands with no trace of uncertainty the way his mother looks at him. It’s the same way she looks at insects, right before dealing the crushing blow.

He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve that look from her, doesn’t know what he’s done to not deserve _any_ look from his father, but he knows it must’ve been something _terrible_. He stays up past his bedtime to read, sometimes, and he doesn’t always eat his crusts. There are days where he hides until someone comes to find him, huddled in closets or crawlspaces, writing letters in the dust with dirtied fingers.

He doesn’t talk around grown ups, doesn’t laugh. The things he says are too strange for a voice as small as his, his father tells him sharply, he laughs at things he _shouldn’t_. It makes them all angry, but more than that, Ienzo thinks it makes them all _scared_. But that doesn’t make sense to him because there’s nothing scary about words, or laughter, or smiling…at least, he never thought so. Scary things have claws and sharp teeth and eyes that glow in the dark from under your bed at night. He isn’t a scary thing, he’s a tiny thing.

He doesn’t know who this man is, in their sitting room, doesn’t know what he wants. His parents speak in tones he’s never heard, flowery in praise, honeyed and sweet and laced with something that sends a finger of cold down his spine. They gesture, they sigh, they shake their heads. He watches from between the banister posts, high up the spiraling length of staircase, tucked away and hidden in plain sight, like so many unwanted tchotchkes. The man in the white coat spots him, though, and he ducks away before he calls any further attention to himself.

He doesn’t know why his room is bare, doesn’t know why there are so many suitcases downstairs, doesn’t know where they’re taking him. Things have been changing quickly, these past few days, and change makes him anxious. The man in the white coat is waiting for him at the door, and he follows like any good, obedient child would. He knows that his parents have died.

He doesn’t know why he’s supposed to care.

——-

He’s not sure what Ansem expects from him. He’s given free reign of the Castle but spends most of his time folded into the rows and rows of dusty library shelves, a wisp of a waif tucked between paper sheets and papyrus leaves like a pressed and withered flower. Ansem doesn’t mind his curiosity but abhors his silence, putting him at odds with the lessons and warnings ingrained into the deepest folds of the fear centers of his brain. The eggshells beneath his feet are a different color, now, but he can still feel them crack and give way every so often. The corners of his mouth ache from lack of practice when he smiles, he swallows his words more often than not, he prefers to look at his hands than others’ eyes.

He’s not sure what to make of the Guards, the monstrous shadows Ansem sends to look after him, lest he stray too far too fast. (He has a way of disappearing when he wants to, blending into the background and dissolving into shadow; it’s a talent that served him well in his parents’ manse, but one that the good Lord is intent on breaking him of.) There are three of them, distinct as the sound of their footfalls on marble floors. The sharpshooter’s gait is loose and uneven, he laughs easily and often and _loudly_ , his grin is pointed and cruel. The lancer is heavy-footed and barrel-chested, lurking in plain sight, eyes cold amethyst glints in the dark. The quiet one, though…the quiet one he likes.

He’s not sure why he finds himself trying so hard to change himself, not sure why the nagging voices in the back of his head want so _badly_ to please Ansem, to make him proud. Still, he tries. He goes outside, on occasion, even if that means only making it to the front steps of the Castle gate to feel the sun on his face. He strays from the library now, wandering around the kitchens and solarium, peeking around the corners where the scientist performs his feats of creation and combustion. It’s still hard for him to talk, though, so very deeply afraid of repercussion. Children should be seen and not heard, his parents had said, and while Ansem doesn’t hold with any of that, he can’t help but wonder where the others stand.

He’s not sure what the things running amok through the Gardens are, much less why he should fear them, but his occasional journey into the town square has come under scrutiny. He likes to watch the townspeople from afar, listening to conversations that aren’t his, feeling the rainbow mist of the fountains on his face in the warmth of early afternoon. He much prefers when the quiet one comes to find him, trailing several paces behind as he lets him explore, hiding winning ice cream sticks in the cuff of his sleeve before ushering him back into the Castle. But sometimes it’s the scientist, harried and high-pitched, dragging him back more than leading.

He’s not sure what Ansem sees in him, that his parents didn’t, what the others don’t. But his smile is so warm, it’s hard not to return; his presence so comforting, it’s hard not to give in to quiet laughter. Ansem isn’t scared of his words or his ideas, doesn’t treat him like a sideshow act. Instead he nurtures and provides, encouraging him to think and breathe deeply. Ienzo takes to dressing like him, though his limbs are still far too short for the hem of his coat, the puff of the ascot obtrusive. Ansem is not one for fueling rumors, but he’s seen the way the corners of the wise man’s eyes crinkle when anyone refers to him as his heir.

He’s not sure who the newcomer is, not sure where he came from or why he’s suddenly so important. Mostly, though, he’s not sure why he takes all of Ansem’s time, these days. Ansem leaves him to study with the scientist in his cold hallways and laboratories bright with poison. There are no windows here, no warmth, no laughter. When he returns to his room at night, it’s never bare, and there are never suitcases lined up at the bottom of the stairs, but it’s a scene he knows well, all the same. The knotting in his stomach and the taste at the back of his tongue are familiar, but he doesn’t allow himself to show it—the sharpshooter spotted his trembling lip, once, the lancer the welling of his eyes, and their mockery was still ringing sharply in his ears.

He’s not sure why he ever allowed himself to believe he had been wanted.

——-

He thinks Even is an absolute idiot, considering he’s a genius. Where Ansem was inviting and grandfatherly and wise, Even is standoffish and aloof, critical and exacting. Still, things could be worse. Even doesn’t expect him to laugh or to smile, he’s content to let him lock himself in the library with stale air and dust, doesn’t care that he does his talking with chalky formulae on boards instead of his tongue. They can have an entire conversation with nothing more than hand gestures and chemical reactions in flasks, and Ienzo is more than comfortable with that.

He thinks Even considers him his prodigy. And that’s all well and good, but he’s also fairly certain his intellect far outweighs the scientist’s. He still can’t reach most of the shelves and supplies without some sort of aid, and were he using his voice it would no doubt only just be beginning to crack, but there are times where he finds himself erasing Even’s theories and work to improve them, expand them, _correct them_. Even bristles and snaps defensively in his general direction, but Ienzo watches from the corner of his eye as he’s proven right time and time again.

He thinks he may frighten the Guards. Braig, anyway, has become decidedly more wary of him, watching his movements with careful vigilance and a hooded eye. The sharpshooter has taken to the newcomer like a parasite, like a worshipper, like _Ansem_. Maybe he senses the anger in him, boiling just under the surface, in the same way Ienzo smells deceit and duplicity on him. They both wear their uniforms, though one is torn and ragged while the other remains pristine and unmarked. He can’t help but wonder just where (and with whom) Braig’s loyalties lie, anymore.

He thinks he enjoys this quiet intimidation he holds over them. He sees the way the others shy from Even’s prolonged and indignant eye contact, the way they cringe at his grating laugh and grading voice. He learns he can say more with a pointed stare than any sentence, and takes to wordlessly staring down anyone who questions him. Each time they look away from his gaze, he feels something in the cage of his chest grow and strengthen and bloom. He reads book after book on psychology and body language, knows what mimicking another’s movements means, but still can’t quite decipher which mannerisms are his, and which are _Even’s_.

He thinks Aeleus worries about him, from time to time. The Guard is still reticent in his presence, almost reverently so, but he’s grown into an expert at reading words left unsaid and unwritten. He and Aeleus are not so different, in that way. The townsfolk and their provincial lives hold little interest for him, now, but there are still days where he shucks his lab coat and ventures out into the shade of alleyways and the shadows of unused market stalls. He tells himself it’s because his legs need stretching, his brain can’t withstand the constant stench of bleach and chemical burn in Even’s lair, but on the days looks and looks and still can’t spot that navy blue uniform among the throngs, he wonders how much truth there is to that.

He thinks there’s something bigger going on, behind closed doors. He thinks he hears Ansem’s voice at night, echoing bellows of anger or frustration or _fear_ , and he thinks he _likes_ it. He notices the way no one wants to meet the Lord’s eyes anymore, the way feet are awkwardly shuffled or defiantly stomped, and he can’t help but feel a silent sort of retribution for the way he was so carelessly tossed to the side. More than that, though, he wants to _contribute_. He thinks it’s most likely nothing more than the burgeoning adolescent impudence in him, that it’s not a personal vendetta, not _really_ , but he also thinks he’s doubting his own limits at times.

He thinks it’s all the newcomer’s doing, if the whispers he catches have any truth to them. Xehanort, he’s called, with his amnesiac past and simpering eyes, but Ienzo knows firsthand how very deceiving an innocent face can be. He learns to disappear when he wants, leans how to use surroundings and umbrage to his advantage. Tongues waggle much looser, he finds, when people believe themselves to be alone and unheard. He learns about a great many things, things he never would’ve found in the library’s books or Even’s beakers: Unversed, Keyblades, magic, hearts, and more. He doesn’t like everything he hears, however.

He thinks Even underestimates him. This fills him with something hot and heavy and coppery, making his head buzz louder than a rattled nest of hornets. There are experiments in the works, studies behind locked doors, methods and findings and procedures the scientist had rather shared with Xehanort and Dilan and _Braig_ , before telling him. He tries not to dwell on it, for the longest time, doesn’t like the way it makes his fingers tremble and his throat tighten, doesn’t like the implications of how his vision goes swimmy at the edges of his periphery. He finds himself lashing out, all the same, in little ways at first. He never anticipated how quickly things would escalate.

He thinks he’s becoming increasingly tired of this scenario. Even changes the locks on him, rendering his keys and passcodes useless, making it impossible for him to access what he needs to conduct the studies he wants, craves, _needs_. He refuses to be scolded like a child, refuses to be treated as somehow inferior just because he hasn’t cut all of his permanent molars. Even says he’s too young, too naïve to understand; that he doesn’t see the inherent dangers and risks he believes himself so capable of undertaking. Ienzo quietly suggests it’s _Even_ who doesn’t understand the dangers he’s submitting _himself_ to. The labs smell of ozone and electrical fire for a week, afterwards.

He thinks he’s beginning to understand why his parents were so very, very afraid of him.

——-

He knows Xehanort is up to absolutely no good. As a master of double entendre, himself, a professional in the art of omission and manipulation, he can smell it from miles away. But he finds that he doesn’t much care. The Apprentice approaches him one day, voice too clear and confident for the solemnity of the library and its centuries of silence. Xehanort stands with the surety of a prophet among the shelves, somehow bringing a new light to the dim catacomb of long-dead philosophers and scientists, and Ienzo wonders why he had ever wasted his time with such tiny letters on yellowed pages when promise like this lurked only doors away.

He knows, in very much the same way he knew before, that he is being underestimated. His Adam’s apple is barely a protrusion, his eyes still large and wide with youth, and while Xehanort addresses him as the adult he is in his mind, he notes that the tasks being assigned to him are far more elementary than of what he’s capable. Still, he likes the knowing smirks they exchange in the halls, likes the heightened sense of importance he wears around his shoulders like a mantle, likes the bitterness obvious in Dilan and Braig’s glances.

He knows Ansem will build him the lab. He has kept his anger silent and walled behind layers and layers of indifference for years, has learned that children are best seen and not heard and knows how to construct his face thusly. The old man’s heart is still soft for him, he knows, can tell by the way his eyes still crinkle and his voice loses its edge. There are days Ienzo wonders if Ansem even knows of the slight he committed against the boy, if he’s even _aware_ of how brusquely he brushed him to the sidelines when a new and more promising talent reared its head. He doesn’t care, either way—he’s been wronged too many times to waste his energy on sympathy.

He knows there’s something wrong, in the underground. He can feel it the very moment he first steps foot into the newly constructed lab, the way his veins begin to thrum and his heart begins to clench. Anger comes more naturally to him, now, more fluidly. Sleep loses him, more than he it, rampant with nightmares and terrors and voices he had thought he had forgotten long, long ago. The bags under his eyes begin to make him look as old as he feels, the gauntness of his cheeks suggesting some relation to Even, after all. But there is still _so much_ research to do, and _no one_ is as capable as he is. He grows to find a sort of comfort in the screams and pleas from behind the barred doors—the end will undoubtedly justify the means.

He knows he’s losing himself…he’s just not entirely sure he _minds_. Ansem is enraged when the rumors finally reach him, but Ienzo is not about to throw away all of his hard work just because a few nameless and purposeless townspeople have gone missing without a bloody trace. Even can’t bring himself to look at him anymore, can’t meet his eyes, and perhaps it’s just a trick of his mind (it has become _so_ tricky, as of late), but it almost seems as though the scientist has begun to _cringe_ at the sound of his voice, still so quiet and level and _sane_. There are days where he wonders if he scares even _Aeleus_ , but if he does, the Guard keeps it locked up close to his heart and secret in his throat.

He knows the new subjects are going to be trouble from first blush. Ruffians from the Garden, barely older than he is. They used to make sport of sneaking into the Castle, just as Dilan made sport of seeing how far he could throw them out onto the cobblestone. He hopes he gets to cut into them, himself; he wants to hear the loud one go mute with agony, wants to make the quiet one _scream_ , wants to see the look on Xehanort’s face when he proves, once again, their puny hearts are too weak to do much of _anything_ …but Xehanort has other plans in mind.

He knows he’s being replaced again. There haven’t been any signs, no warnings, but he _knows_. He knows a _lot_ of things, anymore, without even trying. Information just comes to him as though he’s some sort of magnet—he can hear and understand the other’s thoughts without them opening their mouths, he can smell emotion and fear like sweat and bile. It’s the loudmouth’s friend, he knows, the one with the calm face and the eyes tempered with rage. He’s seen the way Xehanort’s expression changes as he watches him and his progress, feels the anticipation and expectations in his chest as though they were his own.

He knows the darkness is changing him, slowly but surely. It slips into him when he least expects, seeping into the breaks in his consciousness like fungus into the roots of a tree, eating it from the inside out. The lights flicker around him when he wants them to, doors slam open and closed. He can make the walls and windows melt, if he focuses hard enough, can change his own face in the mirror, can send any room into chaos and wreckage and ruin, only for it to snap back to its previous condition on a whim, not a pen out of place.

He knows they know what he’s capable of…and he knows they’re _afraid_.

——-

He is on the verge of a breakdown, his grasp on himself and reality tenuous at best. He had been right—he’s _always_ right—and the lab rats had taken to the darkness as he had, as the others had, and his presence no longer thrilled Xehanort the way it had used to. He sees the looks they give him, sharp and cautious and _disgusted_ , and it sends his stomach roiling.

He is four times an orphan, four times an outcast, four times a disappointment. He is furious, he is indignant, he is betrayed, he is outraged, he is spiteful. But more than anything else in this world, he is _exhausted_.

He is bleeding when Aeleus lays his hand, heavy and solid, against the back of his neck. All at once, the spiraling madness he had been awash in dissipated, the other’s touch grounding him firmly to the floor. There’s an ache in his joints, not unlike that of a long-suffered virus, rendering his muscles taut and head light with dizziness. The courtyard lay in ruin before him, Dilan only a few meters away, panting and predatory in stance, lances dancing menacingly on a phantom updraft. The world falls away for a moment as they watch each other, a temporary ceasefire between the two titans of darkness.

He is surprised when Aeleus speaks, voice a low rumble meant for him and only him. “What do you think all of this will prove?” the Guard asks, slowly, calmly, as though Ienzo hadn’t only just been making an attempt on his teammate’s life.

He is hesitant to respond—not due to uncertainty or caution, but because adrenaline has choked his words from him. “If you can’t be loved,” he says, jaw grit, teeth streaked with blood from a busted lip, “Be _feared_.”

He is fully aware he’s taken the other aback, despite the lack of facial response. Aeleus watches him carefully, almost as if they had only just brushed shoulders in the hallway. “Where did you learn _that_?”

He is becoming increasingly (and _painfully_ ) aware of the migraine blooming at the front of his skull, the threatening after effects of his newfound powers. His vision is beginning to double, but he steels his shoulders all the same, never breaking eye contact, lest Dilan pounce again. “My father,” he spits, and Aeleus has the good sense to not ask him _which_. He can feel his knees begin to buckle, but it’s all right, because Aeleus has drawn his own weapon, the earth shaking and cracking beneath his feet. He’ll finish this fight, and _win_ it, if the look on Dilan’s face is any indication.

He is not the one being abandoned, this time around.

**Author's Note:**

> Reupload from 9/1/14.


End file.
